


King

by seazu



Series: That's Life [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Bartenders, Fighting, GW2017A, Gallavich Week, Gallavich Week 2017, M/M, Murder, Prohibition, Sex, Violence, speakeasy, terry dies spoiler alert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11024148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/pseuds/seazu
Summary: Gangster/Prohibition AU -- The Milkovich's run Chicago, Terry is the Kingpin and Mickey next in line. Ian works at one of their Speakeasies.Part of the 'That's Life' series -- a handful of unrelated AUs based on the song by Frank Sinatra.(You don't have to have read any of the others to read this one)Also doubling as Day 1 of Gallavich Week - AUs





	King

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to my bae, my partner in crime, my editor, my RP partner, the almighty tolerater of my nonsense: OfficialStarsAndGutters. You probably already know her because she's a godly writer, and if you don't -- go look at all of her amazing stuff here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialstarsandgutters
> 
> ANYWAY, this was based on another of our RPs.
> 
> WHERE WAS I? Ah yes, this is part of an AU series based on the song That's Life by Frank Sinatra. The first three parts are also available to read and the last two are on the way, but there is no real connection, they're just random AUs. But if you like this one, I'd appreciate you checking out the others!
> 
> Also it's taken me a while to update this series since I started a new job, so I used Gallavich Week as an excuse to boot myself into action, so this is day one, AUs.

The stink that hung in the air was unmistakable, a musty acrid swamp that should be cloying but only served as a blinking red sign. This city, like most others, was dry; but the law nor the lord could touch a Milkovich establishment. The smell that clung to your clothes, that clung to your _skin_ was the stink of booze and cigars and sweat.

Mickey sat in the booth like he always did when he had nowhere urgent to be. He liked this bar -- sorry, this completely alcohol-free café -- more than some of their other joints. Not so much for the clientele or the fact that it was just far enough away from the shittier parts of the city that it managed to keep from being shut down or smashed to pieces every other night. _But_ close enough to the shitty parts of town that it at least wasn’t constantly barricaded by sisters, daughters, and wives. Nothing fun about breaking those bitches up.

Nah, he liked it here because of the staff they kept. He did his best to keep any business he did for the family in this booth. It meant he would bring good customers in, good tipping customers, but mostly it allowed him to watch the redhead behind the bar. He managed enough of a degree of subtlety in this that he had yet to be caught. Which would - of course - be more than an embarrassing _faux pas_.

He was heir to the family business; Jamie got out, Iggy was a burn out, and Colin had no ambition. And Mandy wouldn’t get it, that’s for sure, who would take a _girl_ seriously? If someone found out he was gay, he’d be dead. That’s it. Nothing to it. Couldn’t bring that kind of shame to the most powerful family in Chicago.

Unfortunately, his instinct won out more than his brain. But fortunately for both of them, Ian was a lot more subtle than Mickey. It pissed him off, almost, that Ian wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t let himself be distracted from work while people were watching. It just encouraged Mickey to gawk at him even more. What Mickey didn’t know was that Ian was just more adept at picking the right moments. He knew exactly when to glance over at Mickey, and how not to get caught by a single soul. He knew when was best to look; to capture the image of Mickey discussing business with other local gangs or traders, the picture of him looking strong and confident. Or Mickey deep in concentration reading - he didn’t know what, scribbling occasionally, sometimes his tongue poked out just a little and he would catch himself looking too serious and slouch back and take a drink of something that he had earlier poured with care.

~

Ian was polishing up the counter when Mickey finally left his booth, the last one left in the “Café”, and without the buzz of people the place seemed oddly large.

“What can I get you, boss?” Ian asked, with an air of innocence that only Mickey saw through. That only Mickey would ever catch the sly tones slithering beneath.

Mickey took a seat by the counter opposite him and quirked an eyebrow, “the usual,” looking around them, “we _are_ alone, you can drop the act.”

“I haven’t locked up, or checked the bathrooms,” he returned, raising his eyebrow right back, but it would never hold the same sharpness or angle. Mickey rolled his eyes, and stood while Ian worked the bar, making his way over to the door to lock up, then double checking the rest of the place.

It was no surprise that something so forbidden made his dick rise. Staring at him all day, wanting to just walk up and pull him over the bar, to kiss him roughly in front of everyone here, the act in itself made him stir and it was a torture to resist him all day.

He picked up the glass waiting for him when he came back over, and took a drink as Ian crossed to wipe up the booths.

“You can take a break.”

“I’d rather get it out of the way.”

“ _Ian._ ”

“ _Mick._ ”

They stared at each other. Ian sharply protesting that all his duties fall to the wayside just because Mickey wanted to fuck. Knowing he’d be tired after and didn’t want to have to explain why he hadn’t finished closing up. Mickey’s stare was just him trying to translate just how much he wanted this and how much of a big boss man he was, not used to being told _no_. Truthfully though, he fucking loved that Ian held no quandaries in putting his foot down instead of just being some bitch for Mick. Which was exactly why he gave in and rolled his eyes one more time. Took one more drink and set his glass aside, rolled up his sleeves and helped Ian finish closing up the bar.

It was satisfying to get his hands dirty in such a clean way, too. So when they finished, and his drink was finished, Ian finally cracked a proper smile and let Mickey drag him by the shirt collar to the office in the back.

~

Mickey's asscheeks stuck to any remaining documents, orders and invoices which hadn't been swept off the desk already. His father's desk really, one of many since he split his time across the city. But that was part of what made it so hot. Ian pushed Mickey's legs up higher as he stood before him like a fucking Greek statue, uniform stripped away to reveal that  _body._ Toned and pale, dusted in freckles, with curves and edges that made Mickey want to run his tongue along every inch of him. Ian's dick hung between his legs like a promise as he slipped his fingers in and out of him. Mickey just braced himself against the desk, trying to relax and make this part go by faster. Not that there was anything to complain about when Ian was fingering him open. So long and slender, but with the bumps of his knuckles which were always a challenge to take at first but then became a fucking blessing, stretching around them like he did. 

This was far from their first time together and as such Ian knew exactly how to work him up, how many fingers he needed, how long it took (though faster every time), which words to drip from his lips to make Mickey's dick throb even harder ("Fuck Mickey, how is it no matter how many times I pound your pale ass you always end up so fucking tight? Not that I'm complaining, you always feels so fucking good when I push into you. You remember how that feels? Course you do. You feel it for fuckin' days, I make sure you do. Make sure you feel that ache every time you move, every time you sit in front of your fuckin' shady business partners and talk shop. Cause I know you're thinkin' about me while you're pretending to listen to them. Thinkin' about me stretchin' you open and fuckin' you until you can't take it no more...") and when his fingers pulled out completely, Mickey knew exactly what ache he meant. All he wanted was Ian to fill him up. It was the only time he felt complete and good and worth anything, even if all he was was a hole to fill. 

They hadn't exactly ever sat down and talked out their feelings but their bond didn't have to be spoken. They knew. Ian knew just as much as Mickey did. They just had to look at each other and it transcended words. His mouth watered a little as Ian jerked himself off, tongue ran across his teeth and dragged on his lips as he watched him, eyes hooded and it took everything in his power not to stroke his own cock. But then he didn't have to worry, his focus was in Ian pushing into him, slowly but persistently. Inch by inch. Eyes always on Mickey, making sure he was in no serious pain, making sure this was okay. Mickey was more than okay, his head fell back as he concentrated on steadying his breath. Always expecting Ian to finish pushing but there was more and more of him, he could never judge it without seeing and he could never look. 

Ian knew Mickey inside and out, he swore he knew him better than he knew himself sometimes. He knew his favourite drink, and not just the one he drank in front of clients because he thought it made him look older than his visage betrayed. He knew what he'd rather be wearing than the suits and shirts and ties. He knew how he liked his eggs, he knew he'd rather have breakfast for every meal because it's his favourite. He knew how persistent his sweet tooth was. He knew about his relationship with his father, and how deep the fear of him ran. He knew how much he missed his mother and how much pressure was put on Mandy after her death. He knew he liked to be the little spoon and how ashamed he used to be to admit that. He knew what every expression meant, what every word unspoken was supposed to be, and he knew that Mickey loved him. More importantly in this moment, he knew how long to wait before he started to move.

Slowly at first and then faster, until the slap of skin on skin echoed against the walls in the room, along with their breathy moans and the occasional grunt or slip of " _fuck"_ or  _"yes Ian christ"_. Walls adorned with replica paintings of classics, or what he assumed were replicas but wouldn't put it past this family to afford the originals. Eyes staring at him from the walls but they weren't the eyes either of them were afraid of. 

The one true Kingpin of Chicago stood in the doorway. He filled it up, so broad and tall. A hulking mass of muscle and tightly bound rage. His eyebrows arched in that same way Mickey’s did but the years of aggression and stress and pain made the expression so much more severe. His voice was a roar that shook Mickey to his core. They sprung away from each other with as much grace as one could muster whilst completely naked and half fucked.

Terry Milkovich charged towards them and Mickey knew it was with intent to kill, but still somehow he Goliath charged past him, knocking him away and going for Ian. For a moment the sounds of his fist thumping against Ian’s face brought to mind the image of raw meat hitting the ground. Freshly butchered pigs being tossed. The idea filled him up for the second it took him to get off the ground and launch at his father’s back. Leaning backwards to make him totter and spin. Ian fell away this time, landing in a heap on the office floor, only vaguely aware of the struggles above. His head was aching, a dull throbbing feeling, like it was four sizes too big.

Terry had pinned Mickey by the time Ian’s eyes were opening. He was just aware of the fact that Terry was killing him, and somehow this realisation came after he registered he was shouting “ _you’re killing him!”_ over and over. His eyes were starting to close again, but not through any choice of his. His face was swelling up, cheeks puffing and slowly his vision was cutting off. He just managed to spot a letter opener in the black smoke that was circling everything. In one last attempt at standing up to Terry, and only really driven by the fact that he needed to save Mickey, he plunged the knife towards him.

It sank uselessly into his shoulder but was enough to disturb the pulping of his son. Mickey was a mess, he was just blood and spit and bulging in places where he shouldn’t be. Made worse by the fact that they were both still naked, covered in their own blood, and spray of each others. And yet, by some miracle, Mickey had the consciousness to reach over his shoulder and grab the knife back out and sink it into Terry’s throat, dragging it and covering himself in yet more. Terry’s roar of surprise was cut short and transformed into gargling. His hands went to his throat and his expression didn’t seem to be able to settle between fear-surprise-rage. He fell backwards and Ian swore the ground shook when he landed. Coughing and spluttering and puddling blood around himself as he stared at them. Ian stared back in a state of shock, ensuring he was well and truly dead before he turned his attention to Mickey.

Mickey was only half aware of what had happened. Everything was buzzing and spinning around him. Every noise echoed and repeated a hundred times. Ian’s voice was above it all and he frowned as if that would somehow make him easier to distinguish. What it actually did was cause him a great deal more pain as he twisted wounds. He sat up little by little and was semi-aware of Ian’s hands helping to guide him.

The next half hour was sort of a blur. They helped each other out of the room and away from the stink of death, fresh or no, the coppery blood smell that now joined the myriad was not at all welcome. Instead they went to the bathroom and cleaned away the blood. Got dressed again, and did what they could to treat wounds.

“My dad is fuckin’... dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Like totally fuckin’ dead, that sonuvabitch ain’t comin’ back.”

“Nope.”

As it turned out, Mickey learned Ian was a dab hand at that sort of thing, since apparently his whole family were scufflers. Mickey’s work in return was a little less impressive, since Mandy was always the one to patch them up.

It was only then that it occurred to Mickey exactly what he needed to do.

“I gotta call Mandy.”

“What? Are you crazy? We can’t tell anyone!”

“Well, we gotta tell someone, you think no-one will notice Terry Fuckin’ Milkovich disappearing off the face of the planet?”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Ian was pacing now, looking lost. Mickey knew this wasn’t what he wanted. He’d always said he didn’t want to be part of this side of the business. The dangerous side. He just wanted to make money for his family. That was everything. “I’m just gonna go home, I can leave right? I’m just gonna go.”

Mickey pushed in front of him, not with any real force or intent, but his hand went to his chest. “Hey hey, look just… here, go to my apartment and wait for me to get back, okay? Call your sister and tell her you’re staying out, but just wait for me to figure this shit out.” He removed his hand only to press his keys against Ian’s chest this time.

Ian stared at him for a long moment before he nodded, taking the keys and backing up so he could walk around Mickey and leave.

Mickey watched Ian walk right out of the back door they’d neglected to lock, where Terry had strode right in to find his son being fucked like a bitch by the barman of his speakeasy. And then he called his sister.

~

Mickey was back home later than late. Knocking on his own door felt weird, but he’d given Ian the only keys, of course. He was exhausted, drained in so many different ways. He didn’t think about how much energy just seeing Ian in his flat, (freshly showered and in his clothes) would give him. Mickey let himself smile, tired as it was, before he made his way into the bathroom and showered himself, put on fresh clothes and joined Ian in bed. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

~

Everything hurt twice as badly in the morning. His eyes crept open and met the light pouring in through uncovered windows. He groaned and rolled over against the line of heat next to him on the bed. Arms snaked around his waist and he closed his eyes again, not even putting up a fight.

“What time did you get back at?”

“Mn, early, duno. Fuck, everything hurts.”

Ian hummed behind him, a low rumble of his chest against Mickey’s back.

“You gotta go in to work like normal,” Mickey reminded him.

“Shit, I gotta find his body?” 

“No, we took care of it, moved it, framed the Russians. It’ll get the Italians on side and we’ll finally be able to push them out.”

“And the Speakeasy is clean?”

“Yeah, we just gotta do everything like normal, and then the funeral. And once that’s over, we’re home free.”

“So you’re… gonna be the new Kingpin?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Mandy agreed to help, and keep her mouth shut about everything, so long as she got a stake. So she’s doing a lot of the running through me.”

“Since no one would take her seriously if she tried to take over.”

“Yeah. To be fair she does a lot of the fuckin' work now, anyway.”

Ian hummed again, but more thoughtfully this time, finally, “good for her.”

Silence fell between them, and despite everything, Mickey felt free. He could never pull Ian across the bar to kiss him in front of everyone - not so long as he valued his life - but he could exist next to him, like this. Didn’t have to fear his father finding out anymore, either. Only had to worry about being fucking haunted by the old bastard now.

“Do we have time for breakfast?” Ian asked, struggling to find a clock.

“There’s always time for breakfast,” Mickey said with a smirk, turning to kiss him.


End file.
